


Secondhand

by unsettled



Series: Secondhand [1]
Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, Spider-Man (Tom Holland Movies)
Genre: Cheating, Comeplay, Consent Issues, Cuckolding, Dirty Talk, Felching, Kinktober, M/M, Quentin Beck Being a Jerk, Sloppy Seconds, Tony Stark/Peter Parker by association?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-07
Updated: 2020-10-07
Packaged: 2021-03-07 18:15:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,062
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26872030
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/unsettled/pseuds/unsettled
Summary: Peter doesn’t appreciate it yet, but Quentin’s put up with a lot to bring him this gift.
Relationships: Peter Parker/Tony Stark by association?, Quentin Beck/Peter Parker, Quentin Beck/Tony Stark
Series: Secondhand [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2152887
Comments: 8
Kudos: 49
Collections: Unsettled's Kinktober 2020





	Secondhand

"Hi honey."

Peter stiffens. Doesn't turn around, not yet, because Quentin was supposed to be home hours ago and Peter doesn't know if he should say anything or not. If Quentin will be even a little bit sorry, or not.

"Sorry I'm so late," Quentin says, coming up behind him. "I had to make a stop on the way home and it ran over."

"It's ok," Peter says, turning. "I was just—"

Stops.

Quentin is a mess. He never goes anywhere looking less than perfect, and here he is, hair all mussed up, flushed and sweaty and his shirt is wrinkled, is— is buttoned up wrong. Is open too much at the neck, and there's dark spots, not even hidden. Marks, from— from— 

"Quentin?" Peter says, and he doesn't even know quite what he's asking.

"Mmmm?"

"What— what are those?" Peter asks. "On your neck."

Quentin reaches up and pulls the collar of his shirt a little wider. "These?" he says. "What do they look like, baby?"

Hickeys. They look like giant hickeys, all over Quentin's neck, and— "Did you just cheat on me?" Peter whispers. "What the fuck?"

"Come here," Quentin says, and smirks, like there's something funny about all this. "Seriously, Peter, come here. You'll thank me for this later, you know."

Maybe he's completely misread this, Peter thinks. Maybe— It's probably a really bad idea, but he goes to Quentin anyway, because he's still hoping.

Quentin pulls Peter in, his arm around Peter's waist. "Do you know who I just got fucked by?" he asks, and Peter jerks, his worst fears confirmed so casually he can't stand it. Quentin pulls him in even closer, tucking Peter's head up against his neck as Peter tries to turn away. "Can't you smell him on me?"

What kind of sick game is this anyway? He doesn't want to know who. But he can't stop himself from breathing, and it doesn't matter if he's trying to smell it or not; there's a scent on Quentin, a cologne clinging to him that— that Peter knows. The he knows really, really well and he doesn't understand, he doesn't— 

"Your precious Tony Stark just spent the last several hours stuffing his cock down my throat and fucking me raw," Quentin whispers right into his ear, and Peter shudders. Why would he  _ do _ that?

He shakes his head, hopelessly, because he can't deny that smell. "Why?" he says. "Why would—"

Quentin fucking laughs. "Honey," he says, all smug and pleased with himself, "I know just how much you want him." Peter shakes his head again, even if Quentin isn't wrong. "No, I know," Quentin says. "I know, Peter. And you can't have him, ever. You know that too."

Peter feels like a broken bobble head, like all he can do is keep shaking his head over and over and over. Quentin digs his fingers into Peter's hair, pulling his hair back, and Peter doesn't want to look at him. Doesn't want to kiss him when Quentin presses his lips against Peter's, and doesn't want to taste come— _ Tony's _ come—in Quentin's mouth. He feels like crying.

He feels a little like he wants to just lick into Quentin's mouth and taste more.

"You can't have him," Quentin repeats. "But you can have this. You can have me, freshly fucked by your hero, smelling like him, tasting like him, knowing he's touched every inch of me."

Oh god, that's so wrong, so,  _ so _ wrong, but it doesn't stop Peter's dick from stiffening, doesn't stop the whine that comes out of his mouth.

"If you think he didn't get off just as hard, knowing your touch was all over me," Quentin tells him, "then you're blind, baby."

It's so fucking wrong, and Peter moans and grabs Quentin's head and yanks him down, kisses him until he can't breathe and tastes Tony.

Quentin shoves him toward the bedroom, half drags him. "Do you know what he did to me?" he says. "Don't you want to know, Peter?" He yanks Peter's shirt over his head. "Want to hear all about how he put me on my knees, how his dick felt in my mouth, how he tasted?" He's got his own shirt off now, hands working at Peter's pants, shoving him up against the wall. "He likes it rough," Quentin says. "Shoved me down on his dick and held me there until I choked, and then did it again. Told me I must be some kind of desperate slut, must just love getting used and humiliated like that."

He pushes Peter over onto the bed and pulls his pants off. "I think he must have been thinking of you instead," Quentin says. "Doesn't sound much like me at all."

Peter's so hard he can barely think, absolutely can't control the way his dick jumps in Quentin's hand. He doesn't want to hear about this, doesn't want to imagine Tony with Quentin at all. Doesn't want Quentin to stop.

Quentin kicks off his pants and then he's crawling up over Peter, staring down at him with that manic glint in his eyes that Peter knows well enough by now to worry about. "He fucked my face like that," Quentin says, watching him. "Kept babbling that shit and fucked my throat nearly raw. Can't you hear it, honey?" and Peter can, he can.

"Can't you imagine it?" Quentin asks, and Peter can.

"Quentin," he whispers, and then Quentin's lying on top of him, chests and stomachs and dicks pressed together. Peter arches up against him, groaning, and hooks his legs over Quentin's.

"He didn't fuck me like this," Quentin says, thrusting alongside Peter's dick. "Maybe it's too sweet for him. Maybe he'd fuck you like that, but I doubt it. He wanted me on my hands and knees, on the edge of the bed so he could stand there and fuck me just as hard as he liked." He kisses Peter again, hard and messy, biting at his lip. "Don't you hate it when I use you like that?"

"Yes," Peter gasps.

"Bet you wouldn't mind if it was him," Quentin says. "Bet you wouldn't mind if he told you what a tight little boypussy you had. Bet you wouldn't mind one bit if he held you down and shoved your face into the bed until you could barely breathe," and Peter wishes he didn't know what that feels like, wishes he can't imagine all too vividly what it would feel like if it was Tony doing that.

Quentin's panting above him, and Peter grasps at him, wanting more friction, more pressure, more something. "Bet you'd come the second he told you," Quentin says, his voice fracturing, "told you he was going to breed you up, going to put his come so deep in you it'd never get out," and Peter’s right on the edge, thrusting frantically against Quentin. His hands slide over Quentin's back, over his neck, his shoulders. "He didn't mark me up during that," Quentin says. "Didn't do it until I told him he should give me something to show you. He couldn't stop himself then," and Peter's coming so fucking hard he can't breathe.

It hurts when Quentin keeps rubbing against him, his cock way too sensitive for that, but he can't seem to do anything more than bat feebly at Quentin's arms, anything but whimper when Quentin comes and collapses on him, his face pressed into the curve of Peter's neck. It's suffocating, the smell of Tony on him like this, the way Peter could almost imagine it was Tony on top of him.

Peter's starting to feel sick by the time Quentin pushes up off him, caught up in this spiral of confusion and shame and want about this whole— whatever the fuck this is, Quentin cheating on him and Tony— Tony can't cheat on him but it still hurts, and Tony maybe wanting him, maybe willing to fuck him like that. Quentin acting like this, doing this, taunting him.

Quentin rolls over, stretching, and sighs. Wiggles a little and turns over onto his stomach, propped up on his elbows. "Hey," he says, "I brought back something else for you too." Peter blinks at him, feeling hollowed out and he can't even imagine what Quentin has. "Don't you want to see?"

"Okay," Peter whispers.

He isn't really prepared for Quentin to spread his legs and arch his back, pushing his ass up like he does when he wants Peter to fuck him. "Go take a look," Quentin says, and he's back to sounding way too smug again. Peter doesn't like it. He pushes himself up and crawls between Quentin's legs anyway, because he knows perfectly well Quentin isn't going to leave this alone, whatever it is.

What it is is a plug, and Peter has a sudden vivid flash of an image, of Tony shoving it in Quentin. Of Tony shoving one in him.

"Take it out," Quentin tells him.

It's dark red, and the come smeared on it stands out sharply. Peter stares at it, stares at the drops that start sliding out of Quentin's ass. "It's Tony's," Quentin says, his head twisted around to look at Peter. "Don't you want it?" He arches an eyebrow and Peter feels completely frozen. "Come on, Peter. Don't you want to get your dick wet in it? Don't you want to know what it tastes like?"

Yes, and yes, and yes, yes,  _ yes, _ and it really sucks that Quentin knows how to push every single one of his buttons, because Peter's down with his face in Quentin's ass before he even has a chance to think about it. Has his tongue lapping up every bit that's dripped out and pushing in for more before he can stop himself, and then what point is there in even trying to quit? Quentin knows, knows too much and knows exactly how much this is turning Peter on, knows every humiliating bit of what Peter wants. It's too late to hide it and Peter  _ wants. _

He eats Quentin out until he can't taste even a hint of Tony, and then he yanks Quentin over to the edge of the bed and shoves his face into the sheets, barely muffling how Quentin is laughing. Fucks him like that, like Tony did, and maybe he couldn't have tasted any more of Tony in Quentin, but it's there in how stretched open Quentin is, in the way Peter’s dick slides in more of Tony's come, wet and squelching around him.

Quentin's saying something, something Peter can barely make out and he knows it's a mistake to let go of his neck, let him talk, but he does. "You know what Tony did when I told him he should mark me up for you?" Quentin says, doesn't wait for Peter's response. "He got himself all settled in one of his big ugly chairs and yanked me right back down on his dick. Spread my legs out over the arms of it and pulled my head back over his shoulder and bit me, fucked me like that, every single thrust pulling against his teeth." He tightens around Peter, and Peter groans. "Thought I was going to have to come back to you bleeding," Quentin says. "Think he'd make you bleed, honey? Think he'd damage you?"

Peter doesn't have an answer for him, doesn't have one for himself, but he couldn't have answered even if he did because he's coming, fucking into Quentin and shaking apart.

He pants, bent over Quentin, resting his weight on him. Quentin squirms under him and Peter can feel the come around his dick, his and Tony's all mixed together now.

Quentin tilts his head to one side, then the other, stretching it. "What do you think," he says, clenching around Peter, and that almost hurts. "Should I go get cleaned up? Or—" he looks back at Peter over his shoulder, and that glint is back, if it ever left. "Should I put that plug back in me and go across town again and see if maybe Tony wants to eat your come out of me too?"

Peter stares at him, and he doesn't want to have an answer for that. Doesn't want to say anything, just have Quentin do whatever he's going to, like he's been doing this whole time. 

He swallows.

"Yes."


End file.
